Page 21 of The Roman Holiday Rule

She gives the tiniest snort, and I take my opening. “You’re very good at what you do. Tonight was elegant and surprisingly fun, and I’m sorry if I made things difficult. When we get back to the villa, I’ll leave, Lexington. I promise.”

She doesn’t reply, but she inhales, sharp and stuttering. Kindness might have been the wrong step—she sounds seconds from crying.

I aim the light toward our feet and slide my hand just under her shoulder blades—my spot—steering us back to the villa. “Like I told you, I got your back.”

I guess she remembers my pun from the plane because she letsout a tiny half-laugh, and it feels like all the fairy lights ignite in my head.

I’ll take that.

Under no circumstances can we be friends—the temptation to want more would kill me, and in our circumstances, there’s no future possible—but if she needs a momentary truce, I’m strong enough to give her that.

I hope.

Fourteen

Lexi

As he promised,Mark disappears the second we arrive at the patio of the villa. Which is good. Exactly what I wanted.

Except ... he was here as a deserving guest. He made that joke in the dark just in time to save me from losing it. I don’t know how or why he did it, but something tight inside me has relaxed, and I feel stronger than I was before, as if I have an ally.

“Lexi!” My name booms from the speakers. I blink and take in my surroundings. Gia stands on the balcony of the outside double staircase, mic in hand, with all the guests whispering on the lawn. She beckons me up, waving a slip of paper. “I’ve just pulled the giveaway winner’s name from the bowl. Come read the lucky name.”

I slip out of my heels because the night is almost done and I feel free and loose and hopeful. I skip up the stairs. Gia hands me the folded paper.

I pause, and not only for dramatic effect. The evening was nearly perfect, and I’m in Rome. It’s been such a whirlwind so far, I don’t want to miss this moment. The air is still warm and full of Italy’s promises—lemony, floral, and earthy—and something bubbles in me like opening pages of a new book.

I unfold the paper and read the name. The night wind teases it from my numb fingers, and it flutters away on the breeze.

“The winner is ... Mark Russo.”

The most reluctant guest, the one I am dying to see less of but can’t stop thinking about, wins the private viewing of Mom’s painting. Since Russo is Gia’s assigned part of the alphabet, she can hunt him down and let him know, but I’m the one who’s in charge of the vernissage.

Guess I’ll be seeing even more of Mark Russo.

This was not the plan.

Fifteen

Lexi

In the wee hoursof the night, it occurs to me that Mom must have seen the balloon picture somewhere and recreated it by memory. I pad across the room to the desk, flick on the lamp, and line up the reception program and the envelope side by side.

Okay, I might be half-asleep, but even in that state I can tell my theory is impossible. Except for the text—Trevi Fountainon one andRoma Festival:L’arte della vitaon the other—the hot air balloons are the same. Every last detail.

One is a copy.

The only explanation is that Julie borrowed it, scanned it, and switched the graphics. Sure it’d be a weird thing to do, but we’re beyond logic at this point.

I send her a text asking about it and fall asleep waiting for her answer.

Late the next morning when I wake up to a dead phone, I snuggle into the expanse of pillowy cotton, hoping for more sleep. Five minutes later, I give up. No way am I drifting off again with friendly shouts between shop owners, the buzz of Vespas on cobblestone,and the scrape and clatter of goods unloaded from delivery trucks outside my window.

But it’s fine. I fling off my duvet cover like a robed Roman victor.

It’s Italy. I can handle it,Mark.

Research, plan, execute.